Loose Ends
by izbel
Summary: “I don’t want to be here,” Cameron said quietly, almost to herself, breaking the comfortable silence. “Define ‘here’” House said. “Here in this room? This hospital? This plane of existence?” “This job,” she answered sadly, her voice just a whisper.
1. Chapter 1

**Loose Ends**

Cameron sank into her chair, spinning around to face the office window. There wasn't much to see, just fat droplets of rain splashing against the glass. The sun had set about three hours before, around the time Wilson had confirmed her diagnosis of the ten-year-old boy that had come through the clinic with his mom three days before. At first blush it looked like a bad case of the stomach flu, except according to his mom, the bouts of vomiting had been ongoing for more two months, and the nausea for quite a while longer. In addition, over the last several months Josh had lost almost ten pounds.

So Cameron asked more questions. Twenty minute's worth. Several options crossed her mind. Gall bladder (awfully young), stress (no problems at home or school, according to Josh and his mom Sylvia—in separate interviews just to make sure she was getting straight answers—and he didn't seem like an anxiety ridden kid, outside of the fact that he felt like crap), food allergies (his mom hadn't had enough time to start an exclusionary diet), appendicitis (no temperature spike and while his abdomen was tender, she was pretty sure his appendix hadn't migrated to the general vicinity of his liver).

It was the tenderness that caught her attention. Granted, vomiting and dry heaves over a 24-hour period accounted for a certain level of discomfort, but when she palpated the area of his liver, the pain level ratcheted up to a "hey, that really hurts" level.

She apologized to Josh, got him settled more comfortably on the examining table, and smiled at Sylvia. "Your pediatrician's probably right, just a bug that's gotten awfully fond of Josh's belly. But to be safe, I'd like to run a few tests."

Cameron hadn't thought it was possible for the boy's face to turn an even paler shade of gray. Seeing his reaction, Sylvia explained, "Josh has a little problem with needles."

Cameron hesitated for a moment. She didn't want to put a tired, frightened, and needle-phobic child through any more pain just to cover her ass, but the abdomen pain could not be overlooked.

"Yeah, that part's not much fun. But I'm really good at it, I promise. You'll hardly even notice." Josh gave her a weak, but brave, smile and she left the room in search of House.

Surprisingly he gave her very little grief about her desire to pursue the case, putting her through her diagnostic paces for about two minutes before letting her off the hook with a brusque, "Let me know if you get in over your head."

She appreciated that he said "if" instead of "when."

A CBC, liver function test, tumor marker, ultrasound, and MRI later, Cameron, House, and the rest of the team sat staring at the whiteboard. Wilson joined them, agreeing with Cameron's preliminary diagnosis--liver cancer. The next day, surgery and a biopsy of the tumor confirmed it. Hepatocellular carcinoma, stage three. Wilson couldn't remove all of the tumor with surgery. Chemotherapy would be necessary to shrink it, followed by more surgery. The prognosis was bleak.

She and Wilson delivered the news to Sylvia, Wilson saying very little, choosing to hang back and allow Cameron to talk softly to the devastated mother, who sat still as a statue in the ugly green post-op waiting room chair, as if she thought if she just didn't move, it wouldn't be real, like a field mouse spotted by a hungry fox.

Finally, in a frightened voice, she asked just one question, "Can you save him?"

"Dr. Wilson is one of the best. There's no one I would rather have handling this case. There's no reason to give up hope."

Sylvia was a pretty perceptive woman, after just three days with Cameron she knew how to read between the lines, and lowered her head, sobbing quietly. Cameron held her hand, feeling utterly useless until Wilson squeezed her shoulder reassuringly, gave her a gentle smile, and silently left the room.

After taking Sylvia to the recovery suite to see Josh, Cameron caught up with Chase and Foreman as they were heading out for the night.

"Tough case kiddo," Foreman said affectionately. "Up for drowning your sorrows at the pub?"

Cameron shook her head, but smiled her appreciation at the offer. "I'll trust you two to drink my share. I'm going to catch up on some paperwork and head home."

Foreman looked like he wanted to try to change her mind, but followed Chase out the door with a last worried glance over his shoulder.

Fifteen minutes later, not one shred of paper had been pushed. She hadn't even managed to turn away from the hypnotic, dark rain falling against the window. House's familiar step-thump, step-thump as he entered the room hardly registered. When she failed to acknowledge him, he not-so-subtly cleared his throat to more formally announce his presence.

Reluctantly she turned her chair around. She watched him study her face, trying to gauge her mood. She offered him as blank an expression as possible, and began shuffling random papers on her desk, hoping he'd take the hint.

And instead, he dove right in. "Wilson filled me in. It was a good call."

Cameron nodded, and began doggedly opening the pile of envelopes that had piled on her desk over the last two days.

"How's the mom?"

She stopped, wondering if she'd heard him correctly—asking after a patient's family. Deciding she had, she answered truthfully, "Devastated. Trying to stay strong for Josh. Mostly, blaming herself."

"And you told her…?"

"I told her that it wasn't her fault," Cameron answered sharply. "And then I told her if it was anyone's fault, it was her idiot pediatrician and the ER docs who ignored Josh's symptoms for the last two months."

Few things surprised House, but Cameron's last sentence earned her a raised eyebrow.

Which was all the further he got. "Please, do not lecture me about how ill advised it is to question the work of another doctor," she said before he could say a word. "The pediatrician saw Josh three times over the last six weeks, each time recommending Pepto Bismol and chicken soup. Evidently the moron likes to think of himself as a traditional no-nonsense country doctor. No reason to get too worked up about the typical childhood problems, like you know, _liver_ _cancer_."

By this time Cameron was standing, hands on hips, her eyes daring House to push her. House, on the other hand, was relying on every bit of his self control to keep a grin from spreading across his face. He'd never seen her so pissed off about anything, including his often completely inappropriate treatment of her, the rest of the team, and patients. He found it oddly endearing.

"Let me buy you a drink," was his response.

Her's was to gape at him, and then open and close her mouth like a fresh caught bass, trying to come up with an appropriate response.

He did it for her. "Now _that's_ attractive. C'mon, you look like you could use a post-bad-news-giving cocktail, if you can keep your mouth closed long enough to swallow. Seriously, that's freaking me out."

Cameron clamped her mouth shut and followed House mutely into his office where he reached under his desk and pulled out a bottle of Kettel One vodka from the mini-fridge under his desk. Two rocks glasses appeared as well. After a generous pour in each, he handed one to her. She accepted it and wandered to the back of his office, sitting down on the tiny sofa, again finding her attention drawn to the dark rain outside.

Several minutes later found her in the same position, quietly sipping her drink. House was tempted to nudge her into another tirade by asking another question about her lawsuit launching speech to Josh's mom, but thought better of it, and instead watched her watching the rain.

"I don't want to be here," she said quietly, almost to herself, breaking the comfortable silence.

"Define 'here'" House said. "Here in this room? This hospital? This plane of existence?"

"This job," she answered sadly, her voice just a whisper.


	2. What's Missing?

"I don't want to be here," she said quietly, almost to herself, breaking the comfortable silence.

"Define 'here'" House said. "Here in this room? This hospital? This plane of existence?"

"This job," she answered sadly, her voice just a whisper.

"I don't recall that being one of the options," House said, hiding his surprise.

Cameron was silent, her eyes still on the rain.

House couldn't decide whether her answer, or her silence, was more unnerving. It had been more than a month since their disastrous "date," followed by the possibly even more awkward return of "the woman he used to live with"--Stacy.

Initially he'd done his best to steer clear of Cameron in any scenario that involved just the two of them in a confined space, dreading the post-date talk he was sure she was itching to have, a conversation he was certain would involve lots of talk about feelings. Oddly enough, except for her ill-timed approach outside Stacy's husband's room, she never again cornered him, and never mentioned the date.

Wrapped up in the walk down memory lane that Stacy's presence prompted, it took House a few weeks to realize that something was wrong, something was missing. He couldn't put his finger on it, since Stacy coming back into his life shouldn't have left him feeling vaguely bereft. Logically, it should have been exactly the opposite, especially since they had been spending some time together, random pockets, five minutes here, fifteen minutes there, catching up and feeling their way…to what, he tried not to think about.

Which left him pondering why it was that something still felt off? After a few uncharacteristically introspective moments, House realized the unthinkable—Cameron was in fact, steering clear of _him_.

There had been no attempts to draw him out with small talk, no longing looks, no post-it notes with loopy G's, reminding him of his clinic hours, or a possibly interesting case. She was avoiding him like the plague.

Eureka, he'd done it! Convinced her to give up her quest to fix him, heal him, screw him, whatever. She'd seen the err of her ways. He was free.

This sense of celebration lasted exactly three minutes.


	3. Silent Treatment

**The Silent Treatment**

Eureka, he'd done it! Convinced her to give up her quest to fix him, heal him, screw him, whatever. She'd seen the err of her ways. He was free.

This sense of celebration lasted exactly three minutes.

At which time it was replaced by a vague sense of foreboding, and a definite sense of indignation.

Sure, he'd expected her to mope around for a little while, especially considering how badly their date had ended. After his monologue diagnosing her "pathology," she'd finally raised her eyes to his, her expression haunted. But there were no tears, no arguments to his logic, and no recriminations. Instead, with an almost preternatural calmness, she picked up the napkin from her lap, folded it neatly and set it on the table, stood up, and walked away without a backward glance.

And he let her, to prove to both of them just how much of a bastard he was.

Once he realized that she was doing her level best to avoid him, he figured it was her attempt to use the tried and true punishment technique employed by women the world over—the silent treatment. So he made it his mission to thwart her efforts.

Leaning casually on her desk as she typed diligently on her laptop, eyes fixed on its screen, he would ask after cases or make a snide comment about a faulty diagnosis suggested earlier by Chase or Foreman. She would answer politely, or just nod, and then make an excuse to leave the room.

The first few days of "Operation Ice Queen Melteth" proved to be pretty entertaining, the next few days frustrating. In fact, Cameron was withdrawing further, if that was possible. Wilson, Foreman, and even Chase had all commented on it on separate occasions.

The thing was, it wasn't affecting her work. She continued to work obsessively on cases, contribute to their white board sessions, and cover her clinic sessions (Cuddy absolutely adored her detailed charting). Which meant House couldn't use her on-the-job performance as an excuse to broach the subject of her dour demeanor, and his pride wouldn't let him just come out and ask her if she was OK.

So he did the next best thing, plied her with alcohol, which so far had elicited two sentences, despite the fact that she had downed three fingers of top shelf vodka. House found this especially alarming, considering that generally Cameron was afflicted by some sort of emotional Tourettes Syndrome, blurting out all kinds of gibberish about feelings and emotions at the most inappropriate and inopportune times.

Since anger often seemed to do the trick, he decided to piss her off.

"I know it sucks about that kid, but you've got to able to put that sort of thing behind you," he said, using his cane for leverage to lift him off his chair so he could half sit-half lean on his desk. "If giving bad news screws with you this much, maybe you should consider a different specialty, research maybe" he added, baiting her with Wilson's suggestion from several months before.

The thing was, he knew she'd handled the mom perfectly, at least according to Wilson, who while he knew had a soft spot for "the pretty ingénue," wouldn't lie to protect her to the detriment of a patient.

Instead of outrage, she simply turned toward him and said quietly, "I always thought that when it became easy telling parents that their children were going to die, _that_ would be when I should consider going into a different field."

_Touche, _he thought. Followed by, _more vodka, stat._

He bent painfully down to his mini-fridge, liberated his bottle of Kettel, and limped over to Cameron. She silently held out her now empty glass. He poured in another three, make that four, fingers and settled back on the edge of his desk, nursing his first glass.

He decided to try a new tack, a direct question. "So, is it this one case that's got you questioning your calling, or something else?"

The question surprised her. "It's not the case, and I'm not questioning being a doctor," she told him, somehow managing not to answer his question.

"You said not three minutes ago that you didn't want this job," he reminded her.

She took a long sip of her drink, summoning some liquid courage, but not managing to meet his eyes, settling for somewhere between his Adams apple and stubble covered chin. "Yes, _this _job. At _this_ hospital. With you."

Though he didn't at all like her answer, House could have cheered. At least she was talking. And if she was talking, he could change her mind.

"Aw, c'mon Cameron," he said cajolingly. It was one crappy date. An experiment gone wrong. I don't hold it against you."

If it was possible, Cameron became even more still. House found himself wondering, what was more still then a statue? A picture of a statue?

He didn't have much time to ponder this, since Cameron swiveled toward him and she caught his eyes in an unflinching stare. He watched her jaw clamp down so hard he could swear he heard the TMJ setting in.

"You don't hold it against me?" she asked, between clenched teeth.

House recognized dangerous territory when he saw it, but in for a penny, in for a pound. "Sure. You had good intentions, just misdirected. And really, who could blame you. There's a lot of ladies out there looking to tap this ass. So you got it out of your system. No need to be all gloomy about it."

He was relieved to see there was no more vodka in her glass, since based on the vice like grip she had on her glass, he would have otherwise been wearing it.

Instead she set the glass on the little side table, stood up, and headed toward the door, only to be stopped by House's cane, extended across the gap between his desk and the glass wall, blocking her path.

"Get your cane out of my way or I swear to whatever deity you might believe in, I'll beat you with it," she spat out.

House felt a twinge of panic. Not that she would actually beat him with his cane, though he wouldn't put it past her, but that he really had screwed this up beyond repair. He didn't bother to consider what "this" was.

"Violence is never the answer," he said, an attempt at levity. The tears that Cameron was too stubborn to let fall clued him in that it wasn't working. "OK, truce. Let's both go back to our corners and try this again."

Cameron, whose eyes had been trained on the cane that was preventing her escape, looked up to catch House's hopeful gaze.

"Go to hell."


End file.
